Its August 4th 1998, she was four. She was a short scrawny thing, with strawberry blonde hair and porcelain skin. Very different from her brother, her sisters, her parents, cousins, grandparents, etc. As a matter of fact in the family portrait you can point her out and say “Where did she come from?”, "Was she adopted? ", “The mother must have had an affair with the red-headed mailman.". People in my family always whispered, they all sounded as crickets in the high grass. The jungle we lived in was concrete, and the interior of the neighborhood she lived in was as tough as the exterior. Brooklyn. Not the greatest area she in lived in. But that neighborhood was always known as the 'old neighborhood'. Where the first thugs lived, so they can be "available" to everyone. But thats not what this story is about. Its about a pink dress.
Author's Note:
I was writing my memoir in my fiction class, and although it was for a fiction class it was based around the "I", so everything I wrote was all truth. The only thing fiction about it, where names where changed. So I had forgotten to do the Vignette for this class (my creative non-fiction class), so I used my other piece as guideline. When workshopping, my classmates found it particularly interesting about my quick short statement about "The pink dress", and they wanted to hear more about it. So that's where my inspiration stemmed from, not doing the assignment. One thing that needs to be understood about this piece is that, I am not bashing any female who is girly and likes the color pink, it was just how I felt and what my opinion is. I will be revising this piece for my final portfolio by being more personable and more open ended because I have noticed that just like my personality, I'm a bit closed off. I have written short stories before but I'm a very poetic writer because thats where my strengths and love lies. In Poetry.
